


Whenever you reach for me (I'll do all that I can)

by dragon_rider



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sappy, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam oversleeps and has a peculiar day, most of which he spends inwardly fussing over his giant boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whenever you reach for me (I'll do all that I can)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betterproposition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterproposition/gifts).



> Written for this [prompt](http://hookedonkillian3534.tumblr.com/post/82349835551/someone-write-a-prompt-for-me-adam-wearing). I might have gone a little overboard, sorry.
> 
> Also this is for [Hannah](http://shufflingshelton.tumblr.com/) because she's great and she's such an enabler omg ~~go blame her for this not me okay i'm innocent JK~~.

“You could’ve set an alarm for me, you son of a bitch!” Adam swears at no one but the phone, really, since Blake is long gone from the bed and he’s jumping up and down to put on his jeans that are way too tight for rushed times like this, “You’re such a piece of shit, Shelton, I hate you so much.”  
Blake chortles merrily, fresh as a daisy for being up at six in the morning after going to sleep at four, and teases, “That’s not what you said last night.”

Adam hisses and groans for all he’s worth but Blake just keeps on laughing at him, so he’s pretty sure that for all his seething he still sounds like an angry kitten.

Different measures of retaliation are required, he decides.

He presses the cellphone to his ear with a shoulder, rummaging through Blake’s closet for something to wear because there’s no way he has time to go to his house to get new clothes, and lets his voice get low and intimate.

“Oh, I remember what I said last night,” he murmurs, “and I remember how I said it too.”

He starts panting and swears breathily, calling for Blake as if in the throes of passion. He gives Meg Ryan on When Harry met Sally a run for her money, even if he says so himself, and gives Blake exactly the right amount of incentive to get uncomfortably hard in his stupid, ugly cowboy jeans in the middle of the set without him being able to do jack shit about it.

The fact Blake doesn’t stop him until it’s too late and he’s swearing and complaining about Adam being a cocktease fills him with glee and makes his parting words all the sweeter to him.

“See you in a bit, dipshit, and oh, by the way—you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

***

Unsurprisingly, Blake’s wardrobe consists of plaid shirts and vests and a bunch of other items that would look absolutely ridiculous on Adam.

He sighs dramatically, curses his boyfriend a little more, and settles on the first flannel shirt his hand closes around along with the only sweater the country singer seems to own.

He doesn’t have time for this shit, seriously, but he checks himself in the mirror—has to fold the sleeves a bit and then roll the shirt up too to hide it, to make it look _chic_ —and makes a mental note to buy the man more sweaters because having only one is criminal in his book.

***

There’s still a certain feeling of wonder and affection as he darts past the door of Blake’s house at L.A. and locks it, keys dangling and ringing with every step he takes to his car because he's _allowed_ to be there, to be a part of Blake's life.

He drives all the way to the set smiling like a fool in love because that’s what he is and he’s not going to be late after all and he got to spent the night giving all sorts of new stimulating uses to Blake’s furniture—and wasn’t the giant asshole glad that Adam does yoga—so life is good.

He parks, sees Blake right at the back door waiting for him and grins because yeah, he’s being kind of an ungrateful little shit.

Life is great.

***

Blake cocks his head in the direction of the nearest empty room once they’re inside and proceeds to kiss Adam stupid, hands kneading the loose material of his clothes in Adam’s sides.

There’s something about the way he’s looking at him then, eyes wide and glinting and almost too wet; about the way he touches the sweater with reverent, delicate fingertips, palms spread on Adam’s back; about the way he buries his nose in his shoulder and seems not to be able to get enough air in his lungs no matter how deep he breathes.

It’s obvious the clothes Adam picked have sentimental value that he didn’t pause to consider.

God, he really hopes he didn’t screw things up between them by wearing this.

“You okay there, Big Country?” he asks, worried and caring, carding his fingers through Blake’s curls, “Was this off limits? Man, I’m sorry, I was cold and I didn’t mean to—I’ll change right away, I—“  
Blake shushes him, holding him tighter against his body, and looks down at him with still too-wet eyes but a small smile on his face.  “I like how it looks on you,” he says, accent so thick the whole sentence is a blur of husky _a_ ’s, “Can you wear it for tapping? Is it—“ he pauses, licks his lips and frowns a little, “Fashionable enough?”

Adam splutters and gives him an incredulous look. He’s nervous because there’s a lot going on that Blake isn’t saying and he wants to understand him so bad it hurts.

“Fashionable? Are you kidding me? Have you actually seen what I wear during the show? This is right up my alley.”  
“Good,” Blake says, stubble leaving a pleasant burn in its wake as he peppers Adam’s face with pecks, “Good.”

He heaves a sigh so long and deep then that Adam wants to wince in sympathy, wants to kiss whatever it’s aching better, wants to kiss him until he chuckles with his silly, loud and wholehearted laughter, until he tells Adam he’s an idiot for worrying.

He kisses Adam’s temple and lets go slowly, ever so slowly that it feels like with every finger that’s not on him his heartstrings quiver and throb insistently, already missing Blake’s touch, already noticing its absence.

Adam is dying to know what’s going on, but bites his tongue.

He smiles up at him, nodding fondly and repeatedly when Blake asks him yet again if he’ll wear it for him, gripping Blake’s bulky arms steadfastly like he’s afraid Blake might fall apart if he doesn’t.

***

He spends the day walking around like he’s wearing fine china instead of wool, appreciating the coziness and warmth of the sweater and the rooted smell of Blake’s deodorant in the red plaid shirt he borrowed from him.

He’s mindful of every sharp angle around him so he doesn’t end up with what feels like a huge chunk of the country artist’s heart in shreds on him.

Maybe the sweater was light brown once but it’s only gray now and the fabric, once thick and a bit rough, has thinned and gone soft from use.

He even gets a couple of compliments for it—for all that it looks almost like a short dress on him—and at some point during the day it gets alright because every time Adam checks on Blake he’s smiling and he doesn’t look like he’s about to cry his eyes out anymore.

Blake even mouths _I love you_ to him once and Adam—well, he’s man enough to admit it, yeah.

He swoons.

***

“My Grandma made it for me,” Blake says, quiet and wistful and about 15 hours late in explaining things.

They’re having dinner and Adam is still wearing the sweater, too scared of taking it off if that’s going to upset Blake in any way.

“I was fifteen,” he twangs, a fragile thing hiding in the corners of his smile, “I was fifteen and I was so tall, so— _huge_ and weird-looking, Adam, I was 6’5 already! She told me I was always gonna be her little boy and she knitted that for me—took her almost a year, took it everywhere she went to get it done sooner just for me, just to show me I was no freak, not to her.”

Adam drops his fork and is up and to Blake’s side like lightning, taking advantage of the fact he’s sitting to cradle his head against his chest and tuck his own chin on Blake’s soft hair.

He knows Blake still feels that way, sees it in the way he stands and walks with his shoulders hunched like he’s constantly apologizing for being so freakishly tall.

“You’re not a freak, Blake,” he states, clear and loud for him to hear it and not forget it.

He kneads the sides of the taller man’s head with firm, through strokes, his thumbs getting stuck on a curl or two but remaining soothing and _there_ , to anchor Blake to him and his words.

And then of course, since it’s him and he can’t just help himself—and he also considers it’s been enough sap for now, thanks—he quips.

“You’re just my grizzly bear.”

Blake snickers against him, the sound muffled and warm as his arms embrace him tighter. “Jackass,” he says, all fondness and no bite whatsoever.

He’d make an awful grizzly bear, to be quite honest, maybe Adam needs to rethink his analogy.

“My jackass.”


End file.
